


Becoming Rory

by smallsteps32



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-15 00:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11794950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallsteps32/pseuds/smallsteps32
Summary: Douglas tells Martin he's been 'being Rory' for years now.





	Becoming Rory

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, so who wants a random un-beta'd, un-proofread fic that I said I'd write ages ago but have only just gotten round to writing in full?   
> I've crawled from my cave to share this Douglas-centric story that I'm not all too happy with, but it's been planned for about half a year now and keeping hold of it seems ridiculous. So I hope you enjoy it, and don't take too seriously the complete lack of pacing and the thread of the tale.

BECOMING RORY

It is 1973, and Douglas Richardson is 18.

The centre of attention, Douglas sits in the midst of a dinner party thrown in honour of _him_ ; specifically, the receipt of his acceptance into Oxford. Now a medical student – though he has yet to feel anything but stunned and relieved – he absorbs the passive admiration of his grandparents and the aunts and uncles his parents have invited on such short notice. He hopes it’s short notice. He prays they hadn’t had this planned for weeks, but the hope is little more than a childish flicker tucked at the base of his throat.

Still, a champagne flute balanced on the corner of their long dining table, wet rings forming spirals on the oak where he has spun it nervously between his fingers, Douglas is horribly proud, wonderfully terrified, and glad to be both the man of the hour and young enough that no one is paying him much notice.

“Of course, we’re so very proud of dear Dougie,” his mother, Dame Penelope Richardson, tells the small group gathered around the island in the kitchen. Her voice carries, though he can only see the ring sparkling on her finger as she gesticulates with the grace of the renowned surgeon _she_ hopes he will become. “He’s been working so hard this past year. Star in Hamlet, grade eight on the piano, and that wonderful cricket match – you remember, the last week of term? I taught him how to strike the wicket just so – we’re running out of frames for his certificates. But this is his future, of course. We’ve put so much energy into his studies, it’s...”

Douglas doesn’t listen to the rest.

The plays, the matches, the wonderful melodies... they warm him to the tips of his toes, but his mother is right. They weren’t like this. They were _his_. Those skills came easily. Like breathing, the urge flows freely through his every waking moment.

 _This_ though. This took effort.

If his mother is to believed, something that required _so much_ effort – effort to concentrate, to learn, to _care_ – it was a sign of great perseverance. It was a success. And for that, Douglas really is rather pleased with himself.

Still eighteen years old, Douglas dotes on the company of his loved ones. In the advent of his next great adventure, he practically clings to it.

 “It _is_ good of you to take up the mantle,” says his father, Dr Richmond Richardson, on a blustery day that should have been Summery, at the edge of the fishing lake, with a rod in his hand. He is a bookish man, a lively one, who shines most brightly in moments of utter peace and quiet.

Douglas scoffs and glances up at his father’s lined face.

“You make it sound like you’re stopping.”

“Don’t be silly, Dougie,” his father replies. “Neither your mother or I plan on quitting any time soon. But it _is_ good... yes, very good. You’re a smart lad. You did it, despite all the trouble you’ve had focusing, getting through the books... yes, I’m proud, lad. Very proud. Our son, the doctor. You’ll outshine us both.”

“And another a writer,” Douglas chimes in, thinking fondly of his brother.

His father hums thoughtfully. “Hmm... yes, I suppose.”

And though Douglas hasn’t ever understood the heaviness that settles over his parents when they discuss his brother – has never doubted their love either – he shivers and prepares his father another hook, a certain hunger lodging deep in his gut. It’s a subtle gnawing sensation. It begs not to lose the bright little smiles his father has only ever sent his way.

“It’s because you’re the baby,” Geoff Richardson tells him, when he eventually returns from his trip. And Douglas, still eighteen and in awe of his older brother – who spends his days trailing after start-up bands and writing scathing reviews for magazines with poor sales – rolls his eyes. “By the time they’d raised me, they got you and realised they had this wonderfully talented little thing to... to mould in their image. Everyone wants it. It’s natural. Don’t you worry about it one little bit, alright?”

“It’s hard not to feel...”

“Guilty? Don’t, Dougie,” Geoff raises his pint, and Douglas does the same, and the bar at their local pub seems to expand as their small celebration stops being so serious.

Douglas tries to keep up, gulp for gulp. “So you’re not disappointed?”

“That you’re not a tear-away? Hell no. I expect big things from you, you jammy little git, and if you’re not there with your big house, paid for with your big pay-slip, whatever will I do when I’m a poorly paid journalist in need of a sofa to crash on?”

So Douglas, at eighteen years old, cherishes the nights his brother is home – the nights out on the town, the evenings around the dinner table keeping their mother entertained with talk of the music he liked, and their father with literary technique. He’s buoyant with the excitement of everyone around him.

It washes away the gnawing in his gut. Nerves, he knows, were normal.

~~~

It is 1975, and aged 20 Douglas’ stint as a medical student ends with a whimper.

He sneaks into his parents home – not his since he moved into student accommodation on their money – shortly before midnight. He isn’t afraid. He isn’t wholly guilty either. The shame of leaving, the embarrassment even, stings a bit, but ultimately he’s relieved to be free of the net he ensnared himself in without even knowing it.

Medical school? A doctorate? He can’t even remember why he thought it was a good idea.

And now he’s free... and a little bit tipsy.

The embarrassment returns with a vengeance when Douglas turns from easing the door onto the latch to find Geoff sitting in the dark at the kitchen table. He’s writing by moonlight. It’s the kind of melodrama Geoff loves, and that Douglas hopes his last impression at Oxford will be – ridiculous in practicality, but ultimately impressive in result.

“Are you lost?” Geoff asks, brow raised, pen at his lips.

“Well, our house _is_ stupidly easy to mistake for the university,” Douglas replies, and then drops his bags and winces at the thud. He moves more quietly after that. It finds him a seat at the table and a view of the articles his brother is composing. “Geoff... they’ll be alright with it, won’t they? Mum and Dad? They won’t be too disappointed?”

Without having to ask what he means, Geoff frowns.

Douglas realises for the first time that disappointment is a tangible thing. The ghost of it breathes impatiently past his neck. It feels like dread.

“Just to be crystal clear,” he says, “I’ve dropped out.”

“Yes... yes, I was worried that was what you meant.”

When the footsteps thud through the ceiling, they both look up.

The uncomfortable silence that hangs over them falls like fog, and remains just as stubbornly until Douglas is unhappily settled in Geoff’s rented flat, not far from the flight-school he has somehow found his way into, living off the loan he has had to take out without his parents’ support. The only rule he lives by is that _he_ cooks. Somehow, Geoff profits by writing recipes for a rag run by a patron of the Women’s Institute. The lord moves in mysterious ways to do wonderful things for the Richardson boys, and by some miracle, there is food on the table.

His parents visit. They are polite, and warm, and yet distinctly unimpressed by the unsteady trajectory their sons’ lives have taken.

“Pilot’s a decent profession,” Douglas says over a cheap bag of chips, three hours into his studies. “And exciting too. Better than a doctor anyway. More suited to my temperament.”

“You certainly seem excited.”

“My instructor says I’ve got a natural talent.”

Geoff snorts. “Him and every other teacher you’ve ever had. It’s practical, I guess. Lots of activity – nowhere near enough reading to boggle you. Just pay _attention_ , alright? I can’t support you forever.”

“Jetting about, a charming uniform, adventure on the horizon-”

“People’s lives in your hands.”

“Yes, of course. So I was right. It’s just as valid as being a doctor,” Douglas says. “Give it a year into my having a proper job and Mum won’t know why she ever worried.”

He really believes it too, and takes great joy in higher education for the first time.

It makes the cramped living arrangements worth it. Losing his place at Oxford is the best thing that has ever happened to him. He is young, and free, and there’s something almost delightful in no longer being the favourite child if he squints at the matter _just_ right. There’s an image in the back of his mind of himself – that platonic conception Fitzgerald painted for Gatsby – and he adores it already. This Captain is bigger than him, better, and glorious... and when he pales, he pushes the thought away.

~~~

It is 1978, and Douglas is 23 and utterly unprepared for the vastness of the world he has careened into.

Blinding success and popularity – and a charming disposition that sits well with his examiners – have propelled him into Air England’s welcoming arms. Aircraft loom high above his head, crowds swarm the airports, and he is outnumbered by men ten, thirty, fifty years his senior, feeling tremulously small beside even his peers. There are a handful of men around his own age, all as pale and nervous and _eager_ , but he feels momentarily like an imposter as he makes easy conversation.

It’s like a wonderful act – a part in a play – and he maintains it brilliantly until he meets his commanding officer.

“Mine’s got a stutter and a shaking left hand,” whispers Hercules Shipwright as they bumble around the pilots’ lounge, still unsure where they _ought_ to be in this new untested land. He’s the friendly sort – hardly quiet, but keen to be a part of any conversation – and Douglas, as always, finds himself drawn to anyone who listens as intently as Herc does.

Douglas hasn’t flown yet, and makes no effort to hide his annoyance as the urge to put his feet on the coffee table wars with the need to please any superior officers that might be watching. Part of him doesn’t care. The rest recoils at anyone _knowing_ he doesn’t care.

He’s a professional, after all.

“I’ve not met mine yet,” Douglas says grimly. He recites the name he was issued, “Captain Rory Karan. A veteran of some sorts. _Still_ , better _late_ than shaking over the controls, hey?”

“He’s not crashed yet.”

“Yet.”

Until the day Captain Rory Karan actually turns up for work – and Douglas is finally freed from the task of filling out paperwork – his only hero has been the idea of himself at his final destination, everything he and his parents have ever dreamed of.

Then a clack echoes on the floor outside, and a woman marches into the pilots’ lounge leaning on a walking stick, head high, uniform paling in comparison to the confidence that glows from every barked instruction as she clips the heels of the other captains loitering in the doorway.

Dark skinned, grey-haired, pinned together with some presence of power that carries her across the lounge despite her advanced age, the woman takes her place at the centre of the room. She surveys the people in her immediate vicinity. If she knows Douglas is watching, overwhelmed with curiosity at the first female pilot he has ever seen, she doesn’t call attention to it. Instead, she clears her throat.

“Which one of you boys is Douglas Richardson?”

And Douglas, for once terrified at the prospect of being the centre of attention, raises his hand. The woman makes a small ‘ah’ of understanding. By the time she reaches him, Douglas is on his feet and the turned backs of his peers offers some privacy.

The woman stops within arm’s reach.

“Are you any good at flying planes, lad?”

Douglas chokes. “I, well, I... I like to think so?”

“Was that a question?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“Good...” She looks him over once more, rolls her eyes, sighs, and offers her wrinkled hand. She keels slightly to the left, weight on her stick. “Captain Lorelei Karan – Rory from this moment onward or I shall be forced to swat you with this very impressive walking stick that I picked up in Kuwait.”

Ever quick at overcoming his surprise, Douglas clasps her hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Ma’am.”

When he tries to pull away, Rory grips his hand tighter and leans in close. Something sly creeps over her face, and though she speaks quickly – with the crisp clip of the wartime radio announcements his father likes to listen to – she takes care to be heard.

“Now lad, I’m going to tell you a truth within a lie. I wonder if you can tell which is which.”

“W-well, I-”

“Guess how old I am.”

“I wouldn’t dare to guess, Ma’am,” Douglas replies quickly. He’s still standing stock-still, hand in hers, prepared to fly planes and make small-talk – rather less prepared for the loop he’s been thrown through. He thinks, as he never does, that he’s too young for this.

Rory shakes her head and taps her nose. “Good answer. Said with far less smarm than the codgers over there.” She nods towards the older pilots, who pay her no notice though Douglas has been gazing at them reverently when he hasn’t been mulling over how pleased he is with his own success. “For that I’ll give you that enigma. I was born, lad, on the day the Titanic sank. All those lost souls – they’ve found a home in me, and with their combined strength, I’ve kept them out of the sea for as long as I’ve lived.”

Douglas blinks. “I’m... sorry?”

“I’m an extraordinary woman, smiled on by Fate, and I won’t have young upstarts crashing into the sea on my watch, understood?” Rory says, and Douglas nods, because what else could he do. Satisfied, she releases him and finds a seat. She doesn’t ask him to follow, but seems to know that he will as she continues. “I am sixty-six years old, Pakistani born, and can gladly say I am the best pilot this company has under their wing. So, lad, I ask you very sincerely... Are you prepared to do everything I say, when I say it, and become the daring pilot you’ve always dreamed of being?”

Still standing, Douglas feels himself quail.

In all his years, no one has actually asked him if he _can_ succeed... they just sort of assume he can. So he believes it. So he nods again, and then remembers his voice.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Really? Because I saw your CV. Theatre, cricket, piano, and _medical school_?”

“I decided being a doctor wasn’t for me. A joke’s a joke, but that one went too far,” Douglas replies quickly. His hands clasp behind his back and he has had this argument so many times that some of his nerves melt away. “But I _am_ a pilot. If you want to teach me, fine. If not, someone else will. But I’ve been waiting around for days now without going anywhere near a plane, and I’d rather not delay matters any further by making a fuss.”

Rory surveys him. “Is that so?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

And with the grace of a rainstorm coming to an end, Rory nods, smiles wanly, and raises herself again using her stick for leverage. She doesn’t stand nearly as tall as Douglas, but she has command enough of herself to leave no doubt as to who is in charge.

“Rory’s fine, lad,” she says, and pats his arm.

Without another word, Rory heads from the lounge. Relief washes through Douglas. He hurries after her, keeping pace easily as they stride through the airport. He’s ready to go. He’s _raring_. He really doesn’t care who mentors him, but his head is clear enough now to realise this woman has a sense of humour – she’s intimidating, and knowledgeable, and quick, and all in all far less clinical than his mother. So he grins, spring in his step.

“Ah, yes, Rory. Don’t go in for all those rules and regs-”

“Oh, I do,” Rory cuts him short. “With the Old Boy’s Club. For you, however, I shall make an exception, you delightfully overachieving cherubim.”

If Douglas stumbles, he hides it well. “Alright, yes... Yes, Ma’am – I mean-”

Rory glances at him without breaking her stride. Her stick clacks and though the pilots in the lounge moved from her path the crowds are less responsive. Her progress is steady, and her posture unyielding, and she is undeterred. She is comfortable, Douglas realises. She isn’t bouncing on her heels as he always seems to be doing – waiting for the next thing to do, desperate to impress. She doesn’t _care_.

“Don’t look so glum, lad,” she says, as if reading her mind.

Rather than explain that he’s not sure what to do with himself, Douglas changes the subject.

“So you don’t like the RAF? I gathered that’s where the old lot are all from – I never went, of course. Dad suggested I did, when I said I wanted to be a pilot, but I – I can’t be doing with all the guns, and the fighting, and the _violence_. Love a fighter jet, me, but still... if I can get the adventure without the... the...”

“Oh, you’re a sweet lad,” Rory sighs, and he’s not sure if she means it. She simpers sadly, sarcastically, and taps his ankles with her stick. “Let us hope we can knock it out of you – only the surface matter, you understand. A good heart’s worth keeping, but you can’t remain so blissfully baffled by everything outside your previously sheltered existence. This is a dangerous job, lad. It’s a cruel job, if you’re not part of the club.”

“So that’s where you come in,” Douglas tries to keep up.

“It’s where I come in,” Rory agrees. “To teach you how to get along with the club, without becoming one of them. You were given to me because my superiors think you have potential. Now, mob mentality kills potential, Douglas. Remain unique. Remain an individual. Tell me lad, what do you want from life?”

At that, Douglas pauses. He waits to let Rory pass through a cluster of baggage handlers before him and hurriedly clears his throat.

“From life? Well, what does anyone want? A comfortable home, a loving partner, a thrilling career-”

“Most people wouldn’t say thrilling.”

“I’m... I’m easily bored, I suppose.”

“Hmm... you’re the cosy sort, I can tell. But you like a good adventure, do you? Lazy in action if not in spirit. That’s better than hard-working and lazy in ambition. That’s what you get with a lot of pilots. Once they’re a pilot, they go through the ropes, but as far as they’re concerned they’ve achieved it all – it’s just a case of sustaining their lifestyle after that.”

“Hold on, what do you mean lazy in action?”

Rory rolls her eyes again. “Your superior officer has been off sick for three days and you’ve been sitting around with your feet up. You were practically twiddling your thumbs when I walked in. In some ways, I respect that. In others... you’ll be on top form, lad, so that _I_ may sit around twiddling _my_ thumbs. Then, when someone young and eager comes under _your_ command, you can rely on _them_ to do all the hard graft.”

Conversation lapses then, until Douglas is practically scuffing his feet, hands in his pockets, unconcerned with the rigmarole of the airport and the protocol but eager to do well all the same. Rory stays by his side, giving stern instructions but refusing to do anything herself, correcting any mistakes he _hasn’t_ made before he _doesn’t_ make them. Only when they are poring over the flight plan and he is reading slowly but surely, copying things he and Geoff practiced out loud, that Rory settles and speaks.

“I was _in_ the RAF, back in ’41... ’43...” she says. “However long we were in the air for. It’s a blur, to be honest – the Blitz wasn’t half noisy. Knocks the sense out of you.”

Just like that, Douglas’ heart skips and his fascination blossoms.

Head snapping up, jittering with the need to act casual and _normal_ while desperate to find out more, he looks her over again. Still a woman in her sixties, still wrinkled and possessing something of an air of her own, she takes on a golden sort of light. There is _history_ in her stature – heroism and experience and _knowledge_ the kind of father would kill for and that his mother would long to call a friend – and he finds himself a little in awe without even having to hear the story.

“You flew in the war?” he asks, missing casual by a mile.

“Of course I didn’t,” Rory scoffs. “Women didn’t fly. I was in the WAAFs though – supported our young men, got my hands dirty, worked the radios in the spitfires mostly. Then when the war was over, I learnt to fly. I’ll be damned if Ms Earheart gets all the glory.”

“Didn’t Amelia Earheart disappear over the Atlantic?”

“Well, one of us is winning then, aren’t we?” Rory declares, and is once again on her feet. She glances at the flight plan and nods curtly. “Come on then, lad. Let’s get you in the air – and far more importantly, back on the ground again.”

If anything, in her wake, Douglas is more impressed than before.

By the time Rory is through with him, Douglas is thirty three – meeting his first wife and edging towards a captaincy, confident and cool and brimming with a belief in his own brilliance that she tuts at with relentless affection. But every ounce of respect – of awe, and wonder, and idolisation fierce enough to carve out a new sense of purpose – was born in those first few weeks under her watchful gaze.

Their first flight together, Rory gives Douglas the illusion of control. He makes errors, and spends far too long mulling over the control panel, but there is never any doubt that if he makes a tragic mistake, she will drag them back from the brink. He asks questions – as he never did in class – and talks to the passengers with an odd sense of guilt that he has tricked these middle age tourists into thinking he’s a grown-up. Not once does he feel like the world is ending. He can’t wait to speak to Geoff. His parents will want to hear a blow by blow account, of course, but for now Douglas is purely and solely pleased with _himself_ and the fact that they land safely on foreign soil.

Somewhere between the apron and customs, Douglas stops feeling like an imposter.

So when Rory turns to him and says, “Douglas-”

He replies, “Dougie’s fine.”

“No, it’s not, lad,” Rory corrects him with a soft-stern glare. She ushers him past the security guards and falls into step just ahead of him. She doesn’t draw attention to the fact he doesn’t know where he’s going, or what to do next. “Dougie is a laughing stock. Douglas, however, is the man his passengers trust when he steps on board. He has his colleagues’ respect. Use your whole name and nobody will question your authority – for that is the most important thing when you’re responsible for so many people’s lives – their trust in you.”

“But _you_ call yourself Rory,” Douglas pouts.

Rory sighs and stops him in the middle of the hall. Her stick raises slightly, like an extension of her arm, to drive her point home with gentle but firm decidedness.

“Let’s try this again, shall we? Douglas is fine. Dougie will have your uniform pinched after a night in the bar. Lorelai is a milkmaid, but Rory is a jack-in-a-box. She springs like an eldritch beast and you can’t help but obey. Weren’t you surprised to meet me?”

Douglas shifts uncomfortably. “Pleasantly...”

Rory pats his arm. “Well, if you insist on keeping your schoolboy name, I suppose your charm will take some of the sting.”

“Douglas is fine,” Douglas says quickly.

“Good lad.” Rory beams, for only a moment, then clacks her stick on the ground. “Now, come, Douglas – you haven’t been with the company nearly long enough to be late yet.”

At first, Douglas suspects that Rory’s prime method of teaching is to draw him out of his shell. That he ever _had_ a shell is a mystery to him, but apparently his persona isn’t up to scratch. He is desperate to be _known_ – to be approved of – no matter how smart he looks in his uniform. This careful teasing out of his embarrassment, followed by swift validation instead of humiliation or shame, is approval of a sort he’s never tasted. His mother tells him over dinner that she’s glad he’s doing well – asks for numbers, and scores – and his father tests him on theory, but Rory assesses him from other angles.

“So tell me a bit about your family, lad,” she instructs as they fly over the Channel, and it feels like a test. She doesn’t need details. She just wants to know _how_ he answers – what he hides and what he reveals.

Desperate to impress her, Douglas swallows hard and grips the yoke.

As with anything to do with home, and medical school, and _anything_ really that doesn’t fall under the hood of ‘pilot’, he’s already decided where the lines are drawn. There is Douglas the pilot, and Dougie the son, and lately they have been entirely separate entities.

But he _is_ proud, too.

“Well, my parents are both doctors,” he says. This earns him a steady glance, which he knows means that’s not enough. Keep going, Rory likes to say when he hesitates, and he’s too afraid of disappointing her to stop. So he continues, “My mother’s a member of the Royal Society of Surgeons. She’s very good, apparently.”

“Her name?”

“Dr Penelope Richardson.”

“Ah yes, of course.”

“You’ve heard of her?” Douglas asks, inexplicably cold for just a moment. What does he look like, he wonders, beside the stories people might have heard?

But Rory shakes her head. “Of course I haven’t. I’m a pilot. That’s a good spark of pride you’ve got there though. That must be where it comes from, I think.”

Douglas frowns – takes his eyes off the skies. “What’s that?”

“Your good nature,” Rory replies.

“I like to think I’ve a naturally lovely... nature.”

“You’ve a darling nature, lad. You’ve not said one word about being under the command of a woman – and there are those that would, but you’ve never considered it, have you? I suppose that’s your mother’s doing. And I approve,” Rory says, and because she said it with such warmth, Douglas accepts it as gospel. He fidgets uncomfortably in his seat nonetheless, adjusting their altitude, and she continues with startling perception, “You’ve very proud of your mother’s achievements?”

“How could I not be?” Douglas replies. “She’s a genius.”

“Now that wasn’t quite so sparky.”

And if his eyes drop, and his smile slips, Douglas knows it was planned from the beginning. Not satisfied with bringing out the best in him, Rory wants to analyse and purge the bits he would rather bottle up. So he shrugs and keeps flying – flying _well,_ he’ll have her know.

“Well, it’s... She’s got a large shadow...” he admits, feigning nonchalance. He hadn’t known it until he dropped out of Oxford – not consciously at least. And even then, he didn’t _want_ the bitterness. Great men weren’t built on bitterness.

When Rory nods instead of telling him he’s being silly, he wonders if she means to nurture that nonchalance.

“You’re smart enough,” she says.

“I know.”

“Got a thirst for knowledge.”

“I’m not a doctor though.”

Rory hums thoughtfully. “Do I want to know what happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Douglas lies, and fiddles with a switch. She taps his hand away with her stick and he remembers with a jolt just what the switch actually does – leans without being explicitly told, and finds his tongue loosened with gratitude and embarrassment. “Really, it was nothing. I just wanted a change of pace.”

“Come now, lad, do I look like a fool? You’re more than welcome to answer, I’ve still got my stick right here. Tell me, or I’ll be holy hell for the rest of the flight.”

Douglas prevaricates a little longer.

Then he accepts that he’s not getting away with it. There’s no pretending he’s not fallible, and any illusion of perfection long since fell away. He almost hopes that Rory actually respects him _more_ for making mistakes and picking himself up off the ground – that that’s why she makes very clear where she stands in the eyes of her colleagues, despite being better than them by _miles_ as far as he’s concerned. Perhaps this is another lesson.

“They asked me to touch a brain,” he says, “a _living_ brain.”

Rory grins, and the weight lifts from his chest. “And you ran a mile?”

“I hit the floor,” Douglas says, practically thrumming with the joy of sharing it in a good light. It sounds like a learning experience – something jaunty, or adventurous, like he’s survived an _ordeal_ and grown as a person. “To be honest, I don’t really remember it. It was a blur or gooey, sticky... ugh. No, this is a much cleaner profession. More my style.”

“And you were pursing _neurosurgery_?”

“It seemed the best fit, given my mother’s fondness for being the best you can possibly be.”

“Still, it’s ambitious,” Rory remarks, and his spirits rise further.

Douglas beams into a drawl. “I _try_ to be.”

“No you don’t,” Rory says, crisp and clear with a curt nod that tells him it’s time to listen. He’s learning quickly that everything is a lesson. She wants him to _learn_ and he’s more than willing. With a slow breath, Rory settles back in her seat, confident in her authority, and in his ability to keep them in the air, and looks every bit the wise and wearied commander that she is. “It all comes easily to you. You’ve a talent for talent, lad. That’s not a bad thing. I don’t doubt you put the effort in, but you follow your passionate heart. It’s why I think you’ll make a good captain one day – yes, I _already_ think that. You’ll get there because you’re good, and because you’re inclined to keep excelling – not because you want the power.”

And that was that, Douglas supposes. He files it away for later and decides that his new persona – Douglas the pilot – is a fair but kind man, confident in his rightness.

Of course, Douglas realises swiftly that any attempt Rory makes to tap into his _inner_ self, she’s just as keen to nurture this new Douglas.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Douglas!” she cries as Douglas, tucked up neatly in his uniform, trails behind her in the biggest airport he’s ever stepped foot in. He’s marvelling at the sights, keeping a respectful distance, and stumbles to a halt when she huffs and turns towards him. “We’re not ducks in a row! Stop dawdling behind me and get over here.”

“I was just-”

“Being deferential and curious, yes lad, you’re a lovely boy with perfect manners.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Now you’re just being facetious. Good lad.”

Slowly but surely, they fall into a routine.

“Oh, dearie me, I am bored,” Rory announces on a night flight over the Atlantic.

Douglas considers his position, flying to the best of his abilities, equally bored but unwilling to rock the boat quite yet. He worries, for a moment, that she’s growing tired of his initial novelty – that his charm is wearing off. There’s no challenge in a student who has already mastered the skill after all, and she does seem to be sitting there, monitoring his careful movements. He motions towards the control panel.

“Did you want to take over?”

“No, you have control,” Rory replies. “You’re learning – not the mechanics, lad, the instinct. I want you so comfortable you stop thinking about it. Then I want you making careless mistakes. _Then_ I want you learning how to get around them. No, Douglas. I am _bored_ , so come up with something. Entertain an old lady.”

And self-conscious but feeling daring – feeling like he’s coming across well so far – Douglas falls back on the games he used to play with Geoff. Little rhyming games, tricky riddles, the sort of thing that drives his mother mad, that his father loves, and that his peers at school would snigger at behind their hands.

Rory laughs.

Soon enough, Douglas is taken into Rory’s confidence and her trust in him means more than his pay-rise. She is a friend as well as a mentor, he hopes. Still, he suspects every moment is another test, as though she just can’t forget she is moulding something great – something in _his_ imagine instead of her own.

She tells him off sternly for trying to emulate her.

Today, however, the sun is shining and Rory is talking her way past airport staff to slip a whole crate of wine-steeped salami into the flight-deck. He’s helping.

“Is that allowed?” Douglas asks.

“Not strictly,” she replies. “It’s not illegal either. Never Douglas – you hear me, never – get involved with anything outside the law. This, however, shouldn’t cause any harm. If I were to declare it, as an ordinary passenger, they would probably be fine with it. But I’m not an ordinary passenger, am I? So a little discretion is needed.”

Douglas smirks, then frowns. “Why not have it shipped?”

“Money, time... money? Oh, and the excitement of it all. I lived with rationing, lad. Can you imagine how desperate people were to get hold of things you would hardly think of. The boys and I had a little fun. Now, help me lift this.”

Despite her insistence that Douglas follow the rules, Rory’s relationship with the CAA was a dalliance at best.

“You’ll have your turn when you’re older,” she said in lieu of explanation.

During layovers, it’s usual for the pilots to gather in some bar or other, and Rory is no different. True, she tends to sit aside, and Douglas joins her, but he doesn’t mind. She has fantastic stories. She is genuinely interested in all the trimmings that come with a public school education – the artsy pastimes that he takes particular joy in. He’s come to an age where he wants hobbies that he can talk about over a drink. He’s been thinking of joining a barber shop quartet or something like that, or taking part in another play. Rory tells him in no uncertain terms to lower his voice around the older pilots, though she smiles.

Douglas has always been popular, but he feels like this is his _time_. He enjoys his mentor’s company and wants to learn all he can – not just about flying, but about existing the way she does, every inch the pilot he imagined himself being.

“Go and play with some children your own age,” Rory sighs one evening as another murmur of conversation turns to laughter.

They’re in some pub not far from central Europe, and there are enough of Air England’s crew there for people to have found their friends. Douglas would be lying if he said he hadn’t been stealing glances at the group at the end of the bar. Hercules Shipwright had invited him over, but Douglas had turned him down. It seemed a shame that Rory sit alone. Others joined her sometimes – often actually – but her smiles were noticeably dimmed, and the lines around her eyes deeper. So he smiles instead and nurses his second drink.

“I’m more than happy here,” he says.

“Lad, you go over there before I throw you over there,” Rory orders. “Do a quiz. That’s the only time anyone likes brains like yours – pub quizzes.”

“ _You_ like-”

“ _Yes_ , Douglas. Go on, now.”

Reluctance cast asunder, Douglas joins his peers. He’s a hit in minutes at most. Sports, films, general knowledge – he’s got the thread of the conversation under thumb and warmth spreading through him. He can’t help feeling grateful.

 At every turn, Douglas feels Rory’s gentle guidance and scepticism pushing him towards being a better version of himself – one he couldn’t possibly have imagined. Even when she isn’t there, he imagines what she would tell him to do. Then he imagines what _she_ would do. And somehow, he feels his doubt slip away.

One day all the confidence is real. She notes his smirk with a roll of her eyes.

~~~

It is 1985, and Douglas is 30.

Herc’s wedding reception is in full swing when the groom himself swoops into view with a pretty girl on his arm, swaying a little with drink.

“There you are, Douglas! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

“Is that what you were doing when you passed the bar three times? I thought you were lost.”

Herc laughs and the girl with wide eyes and a bewildered smile offers Douglas her hand.

“He’s been going on and on about introducing me,” she says. “I’m Constance.”

“Constance Douglas,” Herc chimes in.

“Yes... I heard,” Douglas says, taking her hand and shaking politely, considering kissing her knuckles and imagining what Rory would say. She would ridicule him. Geoff would think it was hilarious. He thought it was rather suave, and decided that would impress both of them more – but by the time the decision was made, her hand was gone. “I suppose I’ve been saved the need to introduce myself then.”

“No, no – Douglas Richardson, this is Constance _Douglas_. It’s her last name,” Herc insists, and with that he’s stepped aside, promoting the space between them. “She’s an interior designer – did our flat up for us. Get to know each other.”

And just like that, Douglas is faced with Constance Douglas.

“I suppose he thinks that’s funny,” he says, watching Herc leave.

Constance huffs out a small breath. “It is a bit.”

Hilarious, Douglas decides; perfectly delightful actually.

By the end of the night, Douglas knows Constance works part time and wants to focus on her home life more than her career – not that she has one, she says, and laughs and he thinks she is _delightful_. By the end of the week she is enchanted by the jet-setting picture he has painted of himself and he is pleased beyond belief at being the centre of this gorgeous, bubbly, sweet-hearted woman’s attention. By the end of the month, he really _feels_ like the person he’s been selling her, and she doesn’t seem to mind when he lets professional charm slip away, replaced by the romance of his own indulgent hobbies.

By the end of the year, they’re married.

~~~

It is 1987, and Douglas is 32.

Verity Richardson is a month old and already as stubborn as he is, far noisier, and apparently just as much of an annoyance as her father. Constance is as sweet and gentle as ever but she has a core of steel, and if Douglas would only _stay at home_ instead of flying here there and everywhere, she wouldn’t _have_ to look after their daughter alone. And when he _is_ there – well Verity has a routine. And for the first time Douglas really would rather be at home – for once wants to be nothing more than what he _is_ , which is a father – and he _can’t_ because he has to do something and if he’s no help at home then he’ll damn well be a success at work.

“Have you told-”

“I’ve said I’ll help,” Douglas snaps at Rory, and hates himself immediately for it.

There are a lot of reasons to be miserable, and as much fun as drinking with his peers used to be, more often than not nowadays, he’s doing it because there’s nothing else to do. She watches him across her own glass.

“Sometimes people need to be told more firmly. I’m not saying talk to the woman like she’s an idiot, or that you _order_ her about... but be firm in telling her that you want to be more involved with the child. Make it clear this is about letting her _rest_.”

It works for a while.

~~~

It is 1988, and Douglas is 33.

“So why aren’t you pleased? Buy her a gift, thank her for all she’s done for you, and let the woman retire in peace,” Douglas’ mother tells him. She sits at the kitchen table at an angle, one eye on his father, who is playing with Verity in the other room. “I understand what it’s like, growing attached to your supervisor. They’re responsible, in a way, for helping you find your feet. But at some point, Dougie, you have to stand on your own-”

“Yes, thank you, Mum,” Douglas sighs. “I have, in fact, been flying with other captains for a while now. This isn’t-”

“Isn’t what, Dougie?”

And Douglas can’t quite explain that this isn’t about leaning on a superior officer. This isn’t about a lack of confidence, or a lack of skill. He’s one of the best pilots among his peers, he’s tackled all manner of poor weather and drastic measures. His social life – what he remembers of it – is _fine_.

It’s just that since dropping out of medical school, his mother’s had this odd quirk... this peculiar inability to imagine for even a moment that he might be excelling. She always thinks he’s struggling.

Oh, he would have had no trouble as a doctor.

But a pilot? Even Rory’s startling praise – and it _was_ startling – isn’t enough to convince her. That imposter syndrome Douglas hasn’t quite shaken off is alive and well inside his mother, watching from behind eyes that never used to need glasses, but do now. Whether his father agrees, Douglas doesn’t know. But their estimation has lessened. He’s old enough now to know what it is and he’s lost that shining ignorance in the face of their judgement. Even now, on Constance’s birthday, they make it clear they think he’s a perfectly _fine_ father... but when Constance mutters under her breath and he hurries to do whatever it is he forgot to do, his mother nods along and he knows she’s sympathising.

Drinks for Rory are arranged easily, and she blesses Douglas with the only hug she has ever bestowed on him, and he’s sure his heart breaks a little.

“You’re a good lad, Douglas,” Rory says, trembling hand on his cheek.

Douglas nods solemnly. “And a good pilot?”

“Is that what I was teaching you? I suppose that’s all my doing then.”

“Do you have to go?” It’s a joke, but it’s also not a joke.

“Believe me, there’s nowhere else I would rather be than back in the Captain’s chair, lad, but I’m _old_... seventy six, Douglas... I’m not safe to fly. And that’s what’s important. Not me, but everyone else who’s lives I might put in danger if I dragged this out any longer.”

Four drinks in, Douglas isn’t capable of holding his tongue like he would ordinarily.

“I don’t know how to think like that,” he says, barely a whisper. “I couldn’t make a decision like that. I couldn’t leave like this...”

Sadly, Rory clasps his hand in one of hers, her stick in the other.

“You’re not me, Douglas, and that’s alright.”

And at the end of the night, Douglas is friends with Old GW – another of Rory’s protégées, and they’re already thick as thieves. Another night, they shift a snow plough in Vancouver and laugh until dawn. Together they start a smuggling game – just a _game_ , Douglas insists as he trades a flapjack for a pen that a pretty stewardess had asked for, promising something in return that he never thinks to ask for.

Douglas likes Old GW’s vigour and passion for _fun_. Old GW says Douglas reminds him of Rory, and that’s enough to get him out of bed in the mornings, leaving Verity a kiss and Constance a sympathetic smile.

~~~

It is 1990, and Douglas is made Captain at 35.

There is nowhere near as much fanfare as he feels in his chest.

~~~

It is 1997. Douglas is 42, and his ten year old daughter locks herself in her room when he takes it upon himself to explain why her mother is leaving him.

As it’s _him_ who’ll be leaving, technically, it feels like his responsibility. And honestly, he wants to explain. He wants her to understand. He wants to tell her that the divorce genuinely came as a surprise... Constance has been quiet, and affectionate, and wanted as much distance as possible, back and forth while he comes and goes from the country and tries to be relieved when he just gets to spend time with them. Mostly, he wants to quell the part of him that _isn’t_ Captain Douglas Richardson and is just hoping if he sits at the edge of his daughter’s bed and convinces her to accept a hug that everything will go back to normal.

Normal, of course, means absences, frustration, and arguments over how often his breath smells of drink... but it still came as a surprise.

There are a lot of things he’s good at, and more that he knows how to do, but he’s not sure how to undo a relationship just... falling apart. If Douglas had seen it coming... he doesn’t know what he would have done.

~~~

It is the year 2000, and Douglas is 45.

It’s a new millennia, and the dawn of a new summer when he meets Christine Summers at a cousin’s wedding. She’s a teacher, and homely, and understands what it means to work ridiculous hours and... well, she’s so wonderfully lovely that Douglas falls head over heels into the warmth she exudes.

Christine wants a home, and a family, and Douglas wants all of those things too. It’s the sort of thing his parents approve of – when they manage to navigate calls – and he’s comfortable for the first time. She’s pregnant within six months and his wife within nine. He sits with Geoff at the reception, glowing with the joy of being a husband again, with another child on the way, watching Verity pick over the buffet – with Constance sitting aside, placated somewhat by the stability a new wife offers Douglas as a father to the child he already has. There’s none of the excitement of before, but he’s happy.

“Someone’s doing well. I saw your article on the front page when I was in Lyon,” Douglas remarks, nudging his brother’s arm.

“I’m not doing as well as you,” Geoff says with a coy smile.

“Oh, don’t brush it off. You’re pleased,” Douglas insists, and he _is_ thrilled at his brother’s success.

He’s gone from writing disjointed reports for local rags to writing with authority. He can walk into any airport and read Geoff’s work – his pride is such that he doesn’t even need to boast. He’s just immensely proud.

“I’ll be pleased when it’s not your wedding day,” Geoff tells him, an arm around his shoulders. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the stag. I’ve been run off my feet – that’s why I brought my editor instead of a date. She won’t let me out of her sight until I’ve finished this month’s centre-piece.”

“I don’t believe I’ve actually met her yet.”

“What? Helena? She’s around somewhere.”

~~~

It is 2001, Douglas is 46, and Emily Richardson is born.

For all her resistance to spending time with her father, Verity is as keen on babies as she is weddings. When she asks if she can visit at the weekends, she does so with her eyes on Christine, and her baby sister in her arms, and Douglas can’t even find it in himself to care. He’s doing well at work, which means more time at home, which means he can find excuses to spend weekends with Verity under the guise of making sure she doesn’t drop the baby. They all have a talent for finger-painting, which is messier than anticipated.

~~~

It is 2003 and Douglas is 48.

Christine leaves.

It’s not the drinking, or the time away, or the constant arguments over things they used to find adorably sympathetic about one another. It’s the fact that he’s been sacked. It’s his complete inability to adequately explain the kimonos sewn into his jacket. It’s the smuggling, and the games, and the suspicion growing around the hours he spends with his colleagues, and friends, his brother and _his_ friends and names are thrown around... the end of this marriage is louder than the first.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Douglas says wearily, over the phone. He hadn’t expected a call, but apparently the rumour mill at Air England still reaches Rory Karan, though she is old enough to be left alone. “I don’t know what I was thinking-”

“ _If I were there, Douglas Richardson, I would rap you round the ear with this damned stick,”_ come Rory’s reply. Her voice is weaker than it ever was, but no less crisp. “ _You’re a grown man. You know exactly what you’re doing – you always have. Now I can’t tell you what went wrong with your marriage – and I am truly sorry to hear another one’s crumbled – but I can tell you exactly what happened at the blasted airline and it’s_ you! _You happened, Douglas. After all the years I put into-”_

“You’re disappointed,” Douglas says dryly.

_“Twenty years ago you would have trembled in your boots to think so.”_

“Oh, you know I admired you, did you? You played it so cool.”

There’s a slow sigh. _“Are you drinking?”_

“Quite the opposite. I’ve stopped and I hate it – but I _have_ stopped,” Douglas replies. He’s alone now, and comfortable despite it, staying in Geoff’s spare room and taking comfort from the friends he still has. “Look, I know I need to get my act together. There was no need to call and put me in my place-”

“ _I called to ask whether you’re alright, lad.”_

Douglas’ voice catches. “Well I’m fine. I’m always fine.”

“ _You certainly play the part well, I’ll give you that. You’re a smart man, Douglas... I know it’s easy to get carried away, I know the lure of impressing people with all that untempered talent, but Douglas... there are show-offs and then there are reckless...”_ Rory trails off as breathlessness takes her, as it has done twice already.

Shame wells deep in Douglas’ chest but he waits, desperate as always for her guidance, her advice, even though he hasn’t consciously followed it in years. He’s just been doing what she would do... poorly, he supposes. The voice, the games, the jaunty love of life... the joy of teaching the new recruits the ropes and introducing an element of adventure into what the CAA had told them was a serious job... that he was good at. The decision making on the other hand – Rory’s judgement and wisdom – he hadn’t grasped nearly as well.

_“You’re a good pilot, Douglas.”_

“Hmm? Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“ _I said you’re a good pilot. You always were, even before I met you,”_ Rory says.

They say little else to one another that night.

In the end, Douglas is left with resolve set like a stone in his stomach, reminding him over and over again that he is a _pilot_ – and a good one. Everything else is extra.

So he finds himself a job at a small airline. He lets the CEO pick apart his CV and his experience, his crimes laid bare, suavity and charm set aside after the first ten minutes and _somehow_ he still gets the job. Carolyn Knapp-Shappey is no Rory, but she’s fierce, and unrelenting, and she’s got a scepticism that sees him for exactly what he is... and doesn’t care. As far as she’s concerned, Douglas could be the biggest disappointment in the history of men. He makes money for the ‘airline’ she’s so recently acquired. That in itself is exciting in a spiteful sort of way, and none of his business enough that his embarrassment is nothing.

At MJN there is no one to impress.

Even Arthur’s idolisation is easily earned. There’s no point in pretending to be anything more than what _he_ wants to be, and so Douglas plays a part for his own sense of pride.

~~~

It is 2005, and Douglas is 50.

Arthur throws a party in the portacabin, which goes nicely with the hand-painted card from Emily – who is gentle, and kind, and artsy in a way her older sister never was – and the card with the price-sticker still on the back from Verity, which reads ‘ _Happy Birthday, okay?’_ and makes Douglas laugh nonetheless.

It’s becoming ever clearer that he’s the only pilot with any intention of _staying_ at MJN. He briefly considers finding other work, because he was a high-flyer once... but he’s so comfortable in Fitton. He’s content. He’s old enough, and he’s learnt enough lessons, to understand that he could _never_ understand how Rory Karan must have felt. For every injustice he _thinks_ he’s endured, she’s survived something worse. She never made his mistakes. And now here he is and he knows what she _wouldn’t_ do is throw this away.

He thinks she’d be proud of that decision.

For better or worse, a long-standing friendship with Helena Peacock becomes a marriage and Douglas thinks she might just be the best wife he’s ever had.

She ticks every box a wife should tick, doesn’t expect more than everything he’s willing to give as a husband, and she works so much herself that she _is_ proud of him for disappearing in the middle of the night when Carolyn calls. She wishes _her_ employees were as dedicated. She likes the finer things and Douglas knows he has finally found someone who appreciates the man he has worked years to create. If there’s one thing he can do, it’s impress.

When the end comes, this time Douglas isn’t surprised, though he’s sure he should be.

~~~

All of a sudden, it’s 2008, and Douglas is 53.

A slew of Captains have filtered through GERTI, and while he’s perfectly happy with Arthur and Carolyn and his daily slog, Douglas is starting to bristle. He knows exactly who he is, and who he wants to project to the world. It’s just that no one is around long enough for him to make a lasting impression. And if they do stay for more than a week, they labour under the illusion that they’re in charge.

“But they are in charge,” Arthur says, no longer nervous about sitting in the spare Captain’s seat with the coffee he can’t seem to help making.

His company is better than a wall of silence, and Douglas does love a sounding board. He imagines this is why Rory used to talk so much. She would talk for hours on long flights, and Douglas would listen. He’s not sure he ever looked like Arthur. Then again, he can’t remember when he started being _looked at_ the way Arthur looks at him, or _listened to_ for that matter. But this is how it’s done, and he rather likes it.

“Arthur, there is a natural order of things,” he says, “and that natural order supposes – quite naturally – that the pilot with the greater skill, if not the most senior in years-”

“Yeah, Nigel was _really_ old.”

“He _was_ , and no less the better pilot for it, as well all saw on that eventful flight... well, it’s better left unsaid. My point is, Arthur, that it’s about the impression you make – on your co-pilot and the passengers. I like to think I make a rather good impression.”

“You’re brilliant at it.”

“Yes. Which is what you’ll tell your mother.”

It was a last ditch attempt to become what he had always wanted to become, even if it was with an audience far smaller than he had intended.

Instead, at the age of 53, Douglas was presented with Martin Crieff – a man who knew nothing of his past save rumours, who somehow managed to believe the absolute worst of him and _still_ believe in the mythical Sky God Douglas had invented. In the confusion of the new Captain’s arrival, going off like a bomb in his attempt to create order, Douglas found himself wondering exactly how Rory would have reacted to the man.

And then, in a fit of something that might have been spite and might have been childish curiosity, decided to find out the only way he could.


End file.
